equinox at the beach
It is immense, this quiet. Each leaf slides
through the blue
unuttered, on a breath of air, the world
barely disturbed; but the whisper
of their fall unsettles.
receives what has all this year
away, up in the sky. It's all suyapi,
and immoderately beautiful. But
it can't last, now that the light
has broken. Now it rains
through incandescent blue, and the sun
lies across the sands in bright black
lines; the trees cast
shadows upward and the water, so long
held in the sea, has risen,
airy, free from its bowl, breaking,
with only a pale hiss, the horizon.
The sky is full now of the depths'
lustre. The birds: grounded.
The heron walks on water; the crow
pushes into the sand.
This is the moment when the year turns.
The sailboat remains soundless, but the white
sail surfaces, pierces the meniscus of the grey
sky. No horizon now: the bumpy ridge of trees,
the mountains hidden under the water-filled
welkin walk as the silk sky begins to sag.
the empyrean deep deflates.
On my face, a caul—what was
once high, air's skin, come to rest,
cheek bones and lips.
It's not that the year will suddenly
switch back to how it was,
that things will snap to, go forward
again, face front into time,
become not-suyapi, but that
we will. Our perception will snap
to the world's frame and it will be
as if that is how it always was.
When a cherry leaf yellowed lets go
it will drift on the eddying air.
We will see it that way. And it will
seem that always the birds
walked on water and the rain
from the sky came down to earth.
It is only here in the changing moment,
when the sky and sea shudder,
then shatter: recompose the image
of the world. Here, only here,
we are free to see both backward and
forward at once.
Originally published by Written River, V.3, Issue 1
Published under the name Carol Shillibeer